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Honoria descended slowly, each step sending a jolt through her chest. She held her spine straight, her chin high, though inside she trembled with trepidation.

No more hiding. No more shame.

All eyes were on her, conversations faltered, and even the music ceased.

Bradshaw stared at her, horror widening his eyes. His usually pale features flushed deep red. The glass in his hand slipped, shattering on the floor.

He staggered forward, his expression morphing into that of a grieving lover in a melodrama.

“Aurelia?” he choked, his voice ringing through the now-silent ballroom. “Aurelia, thank God. I’ve prayed so long for this!”

The crowd parted like the Red Sea, ladies’ skirts rustling as they drew back, allowing him to rush to Honoria as she reached the ballroom floor.

He fell to his knees before her, clutching at her skirts with trembling hands. Honoria fought the urge to recoil, bile rising in her throat at his touch. “I’ve prayed for this day. I thought you were dead!” he cried.

“Did you think I was dead,” she said, her voice like cut glass—each word precise, sharp enough to draw blood, “because you left me for dead?”

The crowd gasped.

Bradshaw froze, his theatrical grief faltering for a moment. “Wh-what are you talking about?” he stammered, lifting his eyes to hers, his face a mask of confusion. His lips trembled convincingly, his eyes wide in bewilderment.

She should have expected this. The bastard would keep playing the perfect husband, the perfect man before everyone else’s eyes. It was only in private that he revealed his monstrous nature. A pulse thundered in her ears.

“Remember that night you accused me of stealing a necklace you bought for your mistress?” Her voice cut through the silence. “The night you thrashed me to within an inch of my life and left me bleeding on a pantry floor?”

He rose unsteadily. “My dear, you must be confused. None of that happened.” He reached to cup her face, but she staggered back, skin crawling. The crowd murmured—some skeptical, others twisting in pity.

“I have scars to prove it.”

“I don’t know what you’ve been through these past four years—” Bradshaw’s tone dripped with feigned concern.

“Six,” she corrected.

“—but your memories must be false.” He raised his voice, ensuring everyone could hear. “People saw you fall from the cliff. It’s a miracle you survived. Your scars must be from that night.”

He reached for her again, and she evaded him, stepping aside, circling him like a duelist ready to pounce.

“I’m just happy you’re alive,” he continued. “No matter how addled your mind. Let’s talk in private, so you’re not further embarrassed.”

“No.” She shook her head. “And if you think I’ll ever be alone with you again, you’re the one with the addled mind. I will not be shamed by what you did to me. And, my dear husband, I can prove my claims in court.” She made a deliberate pause. “When I petition for divorce.”

A chorus of gasps rippled through the room.

As Bradshaw stepped forward again, his fingers curling like claws, she flinched.

Two men took a few steps, flanking her protectively—the Duke of Tyrone and Mr. Lucien Drake. Jacob’s friends.

“I think it’s time for you to leave, Bradshaw,” the duke said.

“Not without her,” Bradshaw snarled, menace thick in his voice.

“Yes. Without her,” the duke said firmly.

“You can’t keep me from my wife,” Bradshaw growled. His eyes gleamed with fury. There he was, the real man behind the mask, the man she knew and despised.

“Perhaps not,” the duke replied, voice low and cold. “But I can keep you from my home.”

Bradshaw looked around at the crowd—everyone whispering behind their fans, assessing the situation with keen eyes—and laughed. “Of course, Mad Duke. As you wish.” He straightened his waistcoat. “But please, be gentle with her, and don’t feed into her delusions. I just want what’s best for her. It’d be a shame if she ended up in a mental asylum after all these years.” He looked at her then, a threat clear in his eyes. A promise.